The Days Before Yesterday eBook

where the sick child lived. Upon being told that
it was about four miles off, the Princess asked whether
it would not be possible to get a pony-cart from the
stables and drive there, as she would like to see
the little girl. I myself brought a pony-cart
around to the door, and the Princess and my sister-in-law
having got in, we three started off alone, the Princess
driving. When we reached the cottage where the
child lived, H. R. H. went straight up to the little
girl’s room, and stayed talking to her for an
hour, to the child’s immense joy. Two days
later the little girl died, but she had been made
very happy meanwhile.

A little thing perhaps; but there are not many people
in Queen Alexandra’s position who would have
taken an eight-mile drive in an open cart on a stormy
and rainy April afternoon in order to avoid disappointing
a dying child, of whose very existence she had been
unaware that morning.

It is the kind heart which inspires acts like these
which has drawn the British people so irresistibly
to Queen Alexandra.

CHAPTER IV

Chittenden’s—­A wonderful teacher—­My personal experiences as a
schoolmaster—­My “boys in blue”—­My unfortunate garments—­A “brave
Belge”—­The model boy, and his name—­A Spartan regime—­“The Three
Sundays”—­Novel religious observances—­Harrow—­“John Smith of
Harrow”—­“Tommy” Steele—­“Tosher”—­An ingenious punishment—­John
Farmer—­His methods—­The birth of a famous song—­Harrow school
songs—­“Ducker”—­The “Curse of Versatility”—­Advancing old age—­
The race between three brothers—­A family failing—­My father’s
race at sixty-four—­My own—­A most acrimonious dispute at Rome—­
Harrow after fifty years.

I was sent to school as soon as I was nine, to Mr.
Chittenden’s, at Hoddesdon, in Hertfordshire.
This remarkable man had a very rare gift: he
was a born teacher, or, perhaps, more accurately, a
born mind-trainer. Of the very small stock of
knowledge which I have been able to accumulate during
my life, I certainly owe at least one-half to Mr.
Chittenden. There is a certain profusely advertised
system for acquiring concentration, and for cultivating
an artificial memory, the name of which will be familiar
to every one. Instead of the title it actually
bears, that system should be known as “Chittendism,”
for it is precisely the method adopted by him with
his pupils fifty-four years ago. Mr. Chittenden,
probably recognising that peculiar quality of mental
laziness which is such a marked characteristic of
the average English man or woman, set himself to combat
and conquer it the moment he got a pupil into his
hands. Think of the extraordinary number of persons
you know who never do more than half-listen, half-understand,
half-attend, and who only read with their eyes, not
with their brains. The other half of their brain
is off wool-gathering somewhere, so naturally they
forget everything they read, and the little they do